


You Told Me I'd Be Iron

by awwcoffeenooooo



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Backstory according to AoU and comics, Experimentation, Gen, Kind of a blend of both, Red Room, Torture, all that good stuff, but it's pretty minor, young!Natalia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-18 23:07:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5946763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awwcoffeenooooo/pseuds/awwcoffeenooooo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natalia had come far. Gone was the girl scared of the dark whom needed her doll. Now, in her place was a fearless monster. Never would she use that word. No, she had a better term. She was iron. </p>
<p>The story of Natalia Romanova, subject of the Red Room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Told Me I'd Be Iron

**Author's Note:**

> Based off the song 'Gasoline' by Halsey. Trigger warnings for abuse, needles and snow? If that's a trigger . . .

The rain was falling softly, but she could tell it wouldn't stay that way for long. It was too cold; soon the fine mist would turn into its much colder and brutal counterpart.

Snow was coming.

It was every homeless wanderer's worst enemy. Especially here on the outskirts of Moscow, where heat and a warm meal were far and few between.

To the West was the faint, dim glow of the city. And to her East was nothing but an unforgiving belt of snow and ice, death and cold at every bend.

Somewhere in those woods were the smoldering remnants of a home. Smoke was curling up into the brisk air, carried off with the wind. Embers glowed menacingly from the black pit, brightening with every passing gust.

_That used to be my home_ , she blinked the tears from her eyes, lost in the memories of years past. Her mother, cooking at the stove her papa had built. Or the way his eyes would twinkle when they shared a part of the book they liked.

He warned them the gasoline was too close to the fireplace. Her mama told him to not worry so much, then told Natalia to run out to the wood pile to grab some kindling.

She obeyed, as all good girls do. Nika, her doll, came out with her to guard against the darkness. She always made the night seem brighter.

Then the explosion, the light dancing across the glittering snow. The red that coated her eyes, the tears streaming down her face as she screamed for her parents. The way the house her papa built crumbled, ashes rising into the sky.

Natalia sat there and watched, screaming, as her life dissolved before her eyes.

Her birthday was next week. She would be turning seven. Mama had promised her a new dress, the one in the catalog that came in the mail. They were going to have a party.

Now, instead, she drifted down the road to Moscow. Her face was swollen with cold and dried tears, her cloak doing nothing to protect against the onslaught of the night. She could feel the raindrops freezing, pelting her face with tiny, near invisible orbs.

He toes were stiff and she had lost feeling in them long ago. Nika was still clutched close to her tiny body, the doll her only company. She was supposed to make the night shorter and brighter; now she just endured it alongside her mistress.

Every step was a struggle, a fight to survive. Her resolve was running thin. She could vividly remember the tales the men exchanged at the trading post of people who went out for a hunt and never came back. Or about the wolves that roamed at night, the sharpness of their teeth like daggers and the piercing glint of their feral eyes.

Those men in the stories never came back; what chance did she stand? She was but a speck in the largest wilderness in the world, an untamed land of death and frozen lives.

Her boots were moving slower now, a barely existent trudge against the snow accumulated on the ground. The wind was picking up, and the sleet had turned to big, fluffy white flakes.

She remembered her papa showing her how to catch them on her tongue.

Natalia couldn't now. Her lips were burning with the exposure, her face icy. It felt as if her very bones were engraved with the wind's whispers, her muscles frozen over with layers of frost and precipitation.

It suddenly came to her that she had stopped moving all together, and was laying with her cheek in a snow bank. Her eyes struggled to remain open, to keep the world in view. To simply stay alive.

Her breath was barely making a dent in the snow in front of her, the flakes not even melting. It scared her.

But that didn't matter now. She was drifting into a dreamless sleep, the pain receding. She felt warm, strangely enough.

_I'm coming, Mama, Papa._

* * *

But when her eyes fluttered open, she wasn't with her parents.

Her joints were stiff, toes burning with warmth. Her lips were raw and her hair wet. She couldn't recollect what had happened the night before.

She was in a bed, a beautiful deep burgundy color. Dark cherry wood served as a headboard with fresh white linens as sheets.

The room was in dark, warm colors. There was an end table with a lamp and various medical supplies on it, a closet on the wall opposite the bed.

A fireplace crackled with warmth, and as Natalia took it in, the events came crashing back in like a tidal wave.

She scrunched her eyes tight and tried not to think of it. It wouldn't do her any good to cry. Papa always said to never show weakness. He was smart; she would be too.

The door creaked open, and Natalia turned to see a lady with dark, graying hair and a weathered face. In her hand she held a pitcher of water and a washcloth. She offered a smile at the sight she was awake. "Hello,"

Natalia blinked groggily. "Hello."

"How are you feeling?" the woman moved to the end of the bed, sitting and wetting the cloth.

She hummed, trying to pull herself together. "Tired," she decided finally. "Where am I?"

"You're in Moscow, little one," the lady lifted the bedsheets and rubbed her feet with the cloth. "In my home, to be precise,"

"Oh," Natalia nodded, trying not to wince at the pain in her toes. "Thank you,"

"It isn't a problem," she dismissed. Natalia jerked at the sudden pressure of a particular stroke of the cloth. "It's alright. You just have a bit of frostbite,"

It was only then she saw her doll, tucked up under next to her. A small smile graced her features; Nika was still intact.

"Do you have parents?"

Natalia stiffened, clutching Nika close to her. "No longer. There was a fire last night. I was the only one who got away."

The lady nodded soberly. "I'm sorry for your loss. They must have been very grand to have raised you as strong as you are,"

She didn't seem very sorry, Natalia noted. But she dismissed it; nothing interested her more right now than her own pain.

The woman's eyes caught sight of her doll. "I like your little friend. What is her name?"

"Nika,"

"That is very pretty. And what is yours?"

"Natalia,"

"Even more beautiful," she smiled. Her hands pulled away the wet cloth then, and she settled in to meet the little girl's eyes. "What if I told you that I could make you like your doll?"

Natalia furrowed her brow. "What do you mean?"

The lady smiled. "Strong, pretty. Make you so you'll never be hurt by the cold again,"

Natalia turned to her doll, taking in her porcelain face and rosy cheeks. Her beautiful clothing and the ceramic curl of hair on her head. But how could she ever be like her doll?

"I do not see how," she whispered, confused.

"You would be like iron. No one could hurt you. You would be beautiful – a ballerina." she explained.

_A ballerina._ Her mother always did love the music of the Nutcracker. She promised that one day they would go, when she was older and it was spring. Now they would never get to go.

Natalia set her jaw. She would do this for her mother and see the Nutcracker for them both.

"I would like that very much,"

She should have said no.

* * *

Her next few days were spent in the bedroom recovering from her walk in the snow. There was hot tea and warm blankets and a maid was even polite enough to read her a book. All the while, the lady – whom she had come to know as Madame – continued with her visits, telling of how excited her people were to make her like iron.

It was a sunny day in Moscow when Natalia was ushered up from her bed and out into the hallway. The maid led her to the bathroom and gave her a change of clothes. They weren't elegant, but they were warm, soft and flexible, and Natalia found she rather liked them.

Once she was changed her long red locks were braided tightly into two tails. They gave her a cloak to wrap around herself, and before she had a chance, whisked out to a waiting car.

It wasn't long before the vehicle turned down into an underground parking garage, twisting down and around until it pulled into a parking space. Madame offered her a strip of cloth.

"What is it for?"

"Your eyes,"

The woman wrapped it tightly around her head, knotting it in the back before pushing her forward. Natalia stumbled over the gravel, fighting to find her bearings as she was led down another pathway.

Despite the blindfold over her eyes, she was still able to make out light and dark. And as she moved, the brightness of the parking garage diminished further and further away. They were descending into a black darkness, one that began to frighten her. Nika was there, tucked up under her arm, but she wasn't helping.

"I don't want to go in there," Natalia whimpered, stopping. "It is too dark,"

Madame shoved her forward. "Soon you will be darkness."

Natalia began to push back against her handler, began to fight to get loose. She yelled at them and tried to rip the blindfold from her face.

Her captors only brought out rope and lashed her arms together before tying a wad of fabric into her mouth. She managed to bite down on a finger whilst they did this, and was a bit pleased to taste the coppery tang of blood, but just like that the knot was in place and she was rewarded with a slap across the face.

Natalia cried out from behind her gag, tears wetting the blindfold. _When had everything gone so wrong?_

Her feet shuffled through the grime and dust of years without air, her steps unsure as of what the next terrain would be. Something scurried over her shoe – something rather grimy – and disappeared off into the darkness.

Her blindfold was wet and heavy on her tiny cheeks, her toes still tinged with frostbite. Her thoughts went out to what her life used to be, before it was reduced to a pile of ash and tossed to the snow. Before her mouth was filled with fabric and her vision taken.

They continued to push and prod, shove her further into the unrelenting darkness. Their words were hushed and whispered, and the little she was able to make out wasn't Russian. It was some foreign language, one her young ears hadn't ever heard.

How many struggled minutes it was before the party stopped she didn't know. All that she did know was that her lips were cracking and coarse from the blindfold and her fingers were numb from lack of blood flow. Her cheek was still smarting from the blow she'd been dealt, no doubt a hand print engraved bruise already forming.

There was a clang of rusted metal on rusted metal, and just like that a filtered layer of light hit her blindfold. It wasn't much, but after being in darkness for so long it was noticeable.

A hand wrapped firmly around the back of her neck and pushed her through harshly. She stumbled half a step before catching herself. Then people entered around her, the door clanged shut, and there was the snap of a bottle opening.

It wasn't until the needle entered her neck that she realized who it was for.

* * *

When Natalia came to, her hands were strapped firmly down to a shining table. Her legs were also held, this time her calves in metal cuffs that ran from her knees to her ankles. Her head was cradled in a helmet of sorts, two metal wings that protruded held her forehead back from lifting all the way up. And the crown jewel – a thick leather strip that ran across her mid-section.

She was exposed and terrified, no cover or shelter from whatever these men – and women – wanted to do to her. No clues were in her sight as she madly tried to see – nothing but a white ceiling.

Tears were streaming down her face as she tried to move her limbs, futilely attempting to lift her head. Nothing.

"What are you doing to me?" she cried, sniffling. Usually her mama would wipe away her tears, but there was no one. So the tears ran and collected in her hair that was knotted at the back of her scalp. "Let me go!"

A man bobbed in her sight, a mask firmly over his mouth and goggles over his eyes. A clipboard was cradled in his arm and he was clad in a black lab coat. He simply looked at her for a moment, her sniffling form begging for help, her pleading green eyes. Then he wrote something down on his board, as if she were nothing human, and turned away.

She yelled more, but no one came to her rescue. That is, until several needles were stabbed into various parts of her body – feet, neck, wrists. All were intruded, and she writhed and cried for her parents. But that was nothing as liquid fire spread through her veins, crackling and burning.

She screamed.

That was the last feeling before it all went black.

_X December 23rd, Natalia's Seventh Birthday_

* * *

Madame stalked around their cots, heels clicking on the ice cold cement. She used a key to unlock the handcuffs that held them to the metal headboard. Natalia winced when it was her turn, rubbing some life into her abused wrists.

She was rewarded with a slap across the face.

"You must never show weakness, girl," Madame glared at her down her pointed nose. "Now get up,"

Natalia felt rage begin to bubble up in her, an inferno. She tried to keep it in, tried to suppress it as she had so many other times, but this time she couldn't.

"I'm still human," she snapped, standing and turning. There was a moment of satisfaction before a snap of air. She cried out, falling back onto her bed.

Madame had pulled a whip from somewhere, and had cracked it across the back of the girl's legs. There was now a bloody gash running across the back of her knees, the skin throbbing with every heartbeat.

"No, you are a machine,"

Natalia let out a whimper and curled further in on herself, trying to block out the mistress' angry comments. She just wanted to go home.

* * *

"You must fight!" Madame hissed in her ear, pacing around her slim frame. "The enemy will not take to pity,"

Natalia inhaled again, bouncing back lightly on the balls of her feet. Arms raised, ready. Feet apart, enough to give momentum but not trip. Head down, protected.

Training. It was seemingly all they did now at the age of nine. Once in awhile they would be given another Kudrin treatment, but other than the experiments it was fighting. Their manner lessons that taught them the proper way to act had given way to nothing but violence, such as now.

Natalia had come far. She was now skilled in the art of deception, able to take down a grown man with just the right momentum and correctly placed blow.

Gone was the girl scared of the dark whom needed her doll. Now, in her place was a fearless monster. Never would she use that word. No, she had a better term.

She was iron.

Natalia was firm, she did not show emotion. She may only be eight years old, but she had come far. This new girl who lived in her body had risen from the ashes of heartbreak and fire. No human could touch her in an emotional way. No one could bring her down by ties to someone or something.

She remembered nothing of her previous life. It was all a series of dreams now, only reappearing when she knew too much and the helmet was clamped tightly around her head. But then the searing pain would come, and she would remember nothing.

All that she did know now was the best way to drop a body, to kill without remorse. Such as was now.

Madame gave the starting command, and just like that Anya flung herself at her opponent. Her foot jutted out fiercely, ready to drive into Natalia's stomach. The redhead blocked, twisting around to jab at the girl's back. Anya let out a small yelp, immediately turning and dealing out a series of blows.

Natalia blocked the worst of them, only taking minimal damage. And just like that she dove in an arc over the girl's head and landed softly, sparing nothing as she grasped the girl's head in a neck lock. Anya struggled, attempting to kick back at Natalia's knees. It was futile.

Madame clapped, the sound like gunshots in the stillness. Natalia held the girl, knowing not to let go until the woman gave the order.

"Well done, Natalia." she spoke. "You have showed what it is like to be a true fighter,"

Natalia just barely caught sight of Anya's eyes as she turned, a flash of frightened blue. But she didn't waver; to hesitate was a weakness. And weakness was not a part of her.

"Kill her," she spat, an icy edge to her tone.

Natalia held the girl firm, even as the tears from the girl began to wet her bare arm. Anya struggled to be free, to save herself.

She sucked in a breath, steeling herself. Her right hand rested on her captive's ear, ready to snap her neck. Preparing.

"Kill her!" Madame repeated, forcefully and strong.

Natalia whispered an apology. There was a crack, and she looked down at the lifeless blue eyes staring up at nothing.

Madame shook her head. "Pathetic, Natalia. I really expected more from you,"

Her blood red finger nails raised and beckoned a guard over. The man shuffled over and grabbed Natalia's arms, pinning them behind her back and cuffing her.

"She needs to be taught obedience," Madame called after them, and Natalia knew what she meant. She wanted to struggle, to run, but there was nowhere to escape. Tears began to wet her eyes.

"Compliance will be rewarded,"

* * *

She twirled, hands above her head, before gracefully pirouetting. Her feet lightly tapped out a rhythm, staying in tune with the music.

This was her now. An assassin disguised as a graceful, innocent ballerina. Only ten, yet so manipulative. So dangerous.

Her hands had killed so many, yet now they were as clean and fair white as the snow outside. They were so petite, waving through the air. But they could slaughter from muscle memory. They could and would take lives.

So she danced, and she smiled. But never did she show weakness. Weakness was an insult to everything she had ever done, learned. It was also a tool. It was so easy to appear delicate, fragile. Paste on a pretty paper smile. Bat your faux eyelashes. Be anyone you want – but never yourself. You are too dark. You are too far gone.

So she danced and twirled, and she played the part. She was not Natalia. She was a faceless ballerina.

She was iron.

* * *

They called him the Winter Soldier. He was a man exempt from time, like the rest of them. He could live for decades.

His eyes were cold and blank, like someone who had seen too much but could not comprehend. Hair hung limply in his face like a curtain hiding emotion. He was a killer, like them.

Natalia studied him carefully. His left arm was not flesh; it was metal. It was cold and unforgiving. She did not anticipate being on the receiving end of such a weapon. It could very well mean death at the right angle.

Instead she paced like a caged animal, calculating. His weakest points were the backs of his knees. The sparing armor left it open, unguarded to attack.

So she leaped, foot jutted out like a prong. Fists in, feet first.

But what she did not expect was his reaction time. In but a split second, he had spun and grabbed her bare foot in midair, snapping it downward and slamming her to the sparing mat.

Her breath left her in a rush, a moment of shocked silence as she tried to catch her breath. But then it passed, and she hurdled back at him. He looked like a great dog toying with a kitten, more than adept at blocking her punches and kicks but seemingly fearful of hurting her.

Natalia found herself becoming increasingly more furious, angered by his inability to actually treat her as an equal. They continued like this, him blocking and her dealing.

It was a split second of indecision, but in his next lull she leaped upward and twisted, wrapping her legs around his neck. Natalia used her momentum to lunge forward and roll them both forward to the sparring mat.

She had him pinned to the ground, his face pressed to the plastic mat. He didn't even struggle. Her lips leaned forward, just close enough for him to hear.

"Why will you not treat me as an equal?" she hissed lowly, his arm twisted and held in place.

He was silent for a beat before answering in a gravelly, seldom used tone. "You shouldn't ever hit a lady,"

He sounded so defeated and lost, she actually felt a twinge of emotion. Sympathy. It was dangerous in her world. But after everything they had done to her, was it so wrong to actually feel something that hadn't been implanted in her mind by their machines?

She felt wrong suddenly. He wasn't mean to be here any more than she was. Natalia couldn't remember coming here, but she knew it hadn't been willingly. He seemed the same.

"Who told you that?" she asked again, relaxing her hold on him.

He stayed limp and lost. "I don't remember. A woman. But that's all I know,"

Natalia stood, relaxing her muscles and allowing him room to stand. His eyes followed her as she re-wrapped her hands with the cloth strips, taking care on her bruised knuckles.

She suddenly felt uncomfortable, shifting slightly. But then her training kicked in and over rode her instinct, making her calm.

"Why are you here?" he asked softly, carefully.

She narrowed her eyes. It was a good thing there was no one in the room; a question like that could very well get her wiped. Again.

But her heart twinged at the heartbreak of him, and she couldn't help but reply, "I do not know." her eyes raised to his. "Why are you?"

He shrugged limply, dropping the eye contact. "They hurt me. Do they hurt you?"

Natalia nodded, re-gathering her hair into its ribbon. "All of the time,"

* * *

A year passes, and he's still there.

They still train, and somehow Natalia comes to understand him through it. He doesn't remember his time from the outside world, but he does remember the woman telling him not to hurt a girl. So they still spar, but he won't ever hurt her like the others.

He remembers a name after three months. Whether it's his or someone else's he can't determine, but she can now call him James.

Slowly, the sympathy she felt at first begins to turn into something else. It's new and frightening and forbidden. They could be separated and executed, wiped again. She would not remember him, and he would not remember her.

The emotion she feels is unlabeled. Carefully, through weeks of feeling it fluttering, she comes to identify it as love. It's strange. She hasn't felt this way in a long time.

So one day she asks him if he feels the same way. He stumbles over words, as he does regularly. She waits patiently. He finally comes to a conclusion. Yes.

She feels her stomach leap. Someone actually cares about her for the first time in her nineteen years. Not because she is a weapon, or because she is iron. But because she is her. She actually feels worth it.

Her face leans up to his, and their lips meet. It's not amazing or extraordinary. It's them.

For eight months they keep this hidden. If they are ever found out they would never see each other again. They would be like two separate continents.

They slip into each others' arms when no else is watching and the cameras are turned away. There is a night they are able to fall into the world outside and watch the stars and feel the snow. His arm feels warm around her waist, not hard metal.

One day she slips off to their meeting spot. It's difficult to get away, but she manages. She waits for as long as she can, counting holes in the concrete wall. No one comes.

He is nowhere for the rest of the day, vanished. She finds no trace of his blue eyes or flicker of his arm. He is gone.

And so is her heart.

* * *

Six more months pass, and soon she finds herself at the edge of her graduation. Natalia knows what happens, what they'll do to her. She's seen the girls go in screaming, and come out silent and hollow.

She can't let that happen.

So she works and plays the part, she does as they say. She shoots the targets and fights the men. But when they bring a figure in a hood to be held at her gunpoint, she refuses. She'll appear unable.

Her arm shakes as she tells it to, her eyes tear up. Natalia will be weak; she cannot succeed. She will not graduate, not be able to be sterilized.

But they know her too well.

Madame sends for a gurney, and Natalia fights them on it. She will not do that. She will not be violated again.

Her elbow cracks into a nose, her foot slices through the air into a stomach. Her fingers claw at arms restraining her, her teeth sink into those grabbing her neck. She yells and curses at them in too many languages to count.

But the needle finds a vein anyway, and slowly her body begins to refuse her mind. She fights to be let free, to run. But it doesn't work. She is strapped down, and the next thing she sees is darkness.

* * *

Four years later, she is standing in a hotel room. Her mark is standing right in front of her, a bow drawn and ready.

His face is worn but young, as if he's seen too much. But his grip is so steady, so sure, she can't help but wonder if this is the end.

She swallows once, eyes meeting his, before she closes them. This will be her death, she is now sure. There is no escape this time.

Natalia waits for the swish of air, for the wisp of of a breath before everything ends. But it doesn't.

When she opens her eyes, an arrow is embedded in the wall next to her head, shaft still twitching. The archer has lowered his bow, and he is studying her. She waits, a bit grateful to this stranger who had spared her for but a few minutes more.

"Why do you work for them?" he asks, confused. "You're so young,"

Her heart freezes. This man . . . he was showing sympathy. It was a weakness. But he seemed, strangely enough, to care for her. Not in depth, not like James. But he cared enough to wonder why she served them, after everything. He might actually care about what happened to her.

So she found herself replying.

"I do not know," she whispered, eyes downcast. "I do not have any other place in the world,"

His face is a mess of emotions. Her training tells her that he should not be showing such thoughts so freely, but it makes him look human. Not like a porcelain doll like the other girls.

He shakes the bow a single time. "If I put this away, will you talk to me? Honestly?"

Natalia is frozen, unsure of what to do. Does he not know what trusting the enemy can do? How simply she can kill him without batting an eyelash? But the honesty, the trustworthiness he displays . . . it makes her nod.

It takes but a push of a button and the weapon is folded and clipped to the side of his quiver. He tilts his head toward the couch. She takes a tentative few steps forward and sits down.

There's a crackle of chatter, grainy from the interference. His hand raises and presses a button on his com unit. From what she can hear (not much), the other end seems angered. So the archer plucks it out of his ear and tosses it to the ground, crushing it with one step of his boot.

He sits on the coffee table before her. Their eyes clash, blue on green, as he struggles to find what he needs to say.

"I've been where you are," he said with a sigh, slinging the quiver off his shoulder. "I know what it's like to have no place,"

Natalia remained stoic, kept quiet.

"I used to kill for a living, like you do. It doesn't feel nice," he looked down. "I made a lot of mistakes. If old SHIELD had their way, I'd be dead right now,"

Her eyebrows furrowed. "But you work for them,"

He quirked a smile. "I do now. They gave me another chance. This lady – Carter, I'm sure you've heard of her – picked me up. She was supposed to kill me. Made a different call and recruited me."

Natalia kept her eyes down turned, trying not to seem too interested.

"I want to offer you the same thing," he spoke softly. "You don't deserve what they did to you, Natalia. You were just a little girl,"

She tilted her head. "How young was I? I do not remember,"

If she wasn't mistaken, his eyes were watery. "You were six. Your house burned down. They found you in the snow,"

The wheels in her head were turning. How could she not remember this? She was trained to never miss a detail, but not being able to remember . . . it hurt. She was missing a part of herself.

"Thank you," she nodded, giving him the briefest of smiles.

His hand outstretched midway to the gap between them. "So will you join me?"

She stared at his palm for a long moment, her heart being torn between all she had ever known and being free. She could just walk away, never feel caged like an animal again.

They had taken everything from her – her childhood, her innocence, her life. Now she had a chance to reclaim it, to take back what was hers.

Her slim hand met his calloused one.

She may be iron, but she could be whatever tool she wanted to be.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> This was a bit out of my comfort zone to write, but I enjoyed writing it nonetheless. Not my best work, either. Natasha is one of my favorite characters because of her many layers and depth, and I couldn't help but write this. 
> 
> The prequel to Little One is in the making, so keep an eye out. It's multichap, Romanogers as heck XD
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it! Maybe leave a review? It helps get me through this cruddy cloud of writer's block :)


End file.
